


Are We In Trouble Now?

by imachar



Series: The Weight of a Man [1]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-02
Updated: 2011-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:02:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imachar/pseuds/imachar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Chris Pike is very young, and a total ass, and Phil Boyce teaches him little about sex and giving up control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Are We In Trouble Now?

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in a series called The Weight of a Man that depicts more than 30 years of a relationship between Christopher Pike and Philip Boyce. There will eventually be fourteen stories in the series and each can be read alone but the series (and the developing relationship) will make more sense if they are read in order. Currently there is only one more story left to write. 
> 
> Series beta'd by skyblue_reverie and zauzat
> 
> This part beta'd by skyblue_reverie
> 
>  
> 
> For anyone who isn't familiar with this rather obscure corner of Star Trek fandom, think of Mark Harmon (in all his Leroy Jethro Gibbs - the second b is for bastard - glory) when you're visualizing Phil Boyce.

He finds himself holding a Gibson rather than the dirty Martini that he’s asked for and Phil Boyce just knows that the evening is fucked if the bar has run out of olives already. He’s not entirely sure what he’s doing here in the first place; he’s never been particularly fond of ‘Fleet functions, and but for the open bar and a pretty decent buffet he normally wouldn’t be caught dead at one. But Ruchi Barrett is a friend and will be the _Wellington’s_ CMO when Starfleet’s newest deep space cruiser launches next month, and Phil had promised he’d keep her company and entertain her with his customary sarcastic commentary for the evening. Right now, however, she’s halfway across the room, trapped in a conversation with her new captain, who, common wisdom has it, could bore for the Federation, and Phil is leaning up against the bar trying to avoid eye contact with any of his superiors.

That’s how he finds himself looking down the length of bar where his attention is drawn to a long, lean figure who is watching the proceedings with a lack of enthusiasm that matches his own. Boyce had arrived just in time for Admiral Ghibertoni’s mercifully brief introduction of the _Wellington’s_ command crew and so he knows that this is the ‘Fleet’s new golden boy. A twenty-five-year-old tactical genius, he’s just posted scores in Command School that no one has seen in thirty years and he will be the youngest XO in the fleet when he becomes Jessop’s first officer three weeks hence, and as poster boys go, it doesn’t hurt that Lieutenant-Commander Christopher Pike is fucking gorgeous. He’s tall and lean and blond, and on first inspection seems just a little too pretty to be taken seriously in command. But even from this distance Phil can see the steel in him, the sharp-edged intelligence in the way he scans the room, making eye contact only when he has to, taking the occasional sip from a bottle of San Miguel that is swinging from the fingers of his left hand.

Phil’s still looking when that cool calculating gaze turns on him and he feels an unexpected frisson of _something_ ; curiosity, attraction, hunger, he can’t quite name it but it’s compelling and he holds the gaze, letting his own interest show and Pike smiles, just fractionally. Indicating with a raised eyebrow that he wouldn’t be averse to Phil’s company, he shifts his body slightly, opening his stance, although Phil finds it just a little interesting that Pike makes no effort to actually move. It’s clear that he’s expecting Phil to come to him, and if he was interested in asserting himself Phil might make him work for that assumption. But that’s a game for men with far less self-assurance than he possesses and he just lifts his drink from the counter and makes his way to the other end of the bar. They’ve never met before, but each knows who the other is and Pike just tips his beer in acknowledgement as they trade names.

As he settles in and leans against the bar Phil raises an interrogative eyebrow at the shot glasses of tequila lined up behind Pike and asks:

“Bad day?”

“Bad fucking month - Command School - we just finished the counter-interrogation unit.” Pike pauses, gives a slightly feral grin and jokes, “Torture camp.” But the grin doesn’t reach his eyes; there’s nothing visible in the cool gray-blue but a slightly cynical weariness and Phil turns a professional eye on him for a moment. The tension that surrounds Pike is an almost physical thing, an electric atmosphere that speaks of stress and pain and exhaustion and suggests that he’s been mainlining adrenaline and caffeine and getting by on far too little sleep for far too long. And in that instant Phil is pissed.

While he recognizes the necessity of it, the whole concept of the counter-torture component of command school makes him extraordinarily uneasy. A couple of years previous, while on research leave at Starfleet Medical, he’d provided medical cover for the two-week module and he’d been shaken to the core by the thoroughness and realism of the techniques that had been inflicted on the command candidates. Sensory deprivation, water boarding, circadian rhythm disruption, temperature extremes, stress positions, hooding – nothing that would cause permanent, or even longer than immediate harm – but enough to give the incipient commanders a taste of what they would face if they fell into the wrong hands, and to give them the tools to withstand treatment that would in reality be far, far worse. Anyone who washed out of this section of the training would never rise higher than second officer, would never be trusted with the critical intelligence and sensitive security codes that protected the Federation and its many worlds.

But what really irritates Phil right now is that three hours after being released from that particularly unique hell, Command has made this boy show up at a launch function. He should be out decompressing - getting trashed with his cohort and finding an accommodating bed partner for the night. Instead he’s here, required to be polite, charming, and mostly sober and to interact intelligently with some of the most boring sentient beings currently resident in _Sector One_. And while the ability to be diplomatic, to cover any trace of physical and psychological discomfort with a smile and smooth conversation is an intrinsic part of the subtle political element of being a successful starship commander, Phil can see that Pike really isn’t quite up to it tonight. His edges are sharp and brittle and there is an over-confidence about him that hints that his composure has been shaken recently; there are dark shadows under his eyes and a tremor in his hands that he’s trying to cover by gripping the neck of his beer bottle just a little too tightly.

The tremor becomes just a little more visible as Pike sets as aside the now empty San Miguel and lifts one of the shot glasses, sinking the tequila in a single, efficient motion and then he gestures out towards where Jessop is holding court with Ghibertoni and a couple of her aides.

"D'you think anyone would notice if we launched without him?” He’s joking, but there’s real hostility in his tone and Phil watches as a muscle twitches in his jaw.

“I think everyone would notice; isn't that the point?”

“I suppose, but fuck, he's going to bore me to death long before I can get promoted away from him.”

Phil laughs; he’s not sure he should be encouraging this line of conversation but it’s entertaining as all hell. “Just look at it as another of Command's fitness tests.” And to be honest Phil isn't sure that's not what Command is doing. He’s quite willing to believe that Jessop asked for Pike as his XO, but at least on the surface it looks like a match made in hell; it’s very clear that Pike doesn’t suffer fools at all - nobody could rise this fast in Starfleet and be anything other than extraordinarily competent - and while Jessop isn’t a fool, he’s an inflexible, tedious, rule-obsessed martinet. Normally the Admiralty doesn't create command teams where a charge of insubordination is a virtual certainty, and that has Phil wondering if this is just another way to see how Pike handles himself. It won’t be for long; the rumor is that Jessop will be kicked up to Admiral within the year and this command is just one last favor – allowing him to go out as Captain of the fleet’s newest ship of the line, before he’s bounced to a desk.

“Seriously, I think they may just be seeing if you can manage to serve under an idiot without going up on insubordination charges.”

“Yeah, well – there’s a rumor al-Farah is running a book…” Pike waves the shot glass in the general direction of a group in engineering reds and Phil has some recollection that Amr al-Farah is the _Wellington’s_ Chief Engineer. “… that’s giving odds of three to one that I end up with insubordination charges and 7 to 1 that I hit him before the end of the tour.”

“Just as well it’s going to be a short tour. You think you can survive it?”

“Fuck yeah; I can do anything I put my mind to.”

Phil has no doubt of it, but the general air of over-confidence makes him roll his eyes and he finishes his Gibson, handing the glass back over the bar and indicating he’d like a refill. “If you still don’t have any olives make this one a Vesper please.” He’s not sure the bartender actually knows how to make a Vesper and he’s ready to supply the recipe, but the young woman turns away and begins to pour three measures of gin into a shaker and Phil relaxes; she knows what she’s doing.

He turns back to Pike who has replaced the empty shot glass with a full one and has the edge of the glass resting against his lower lip. He pauses for just a second and then tips the glass and drains it in one smooth swallow. The entire exercise is a tease and they both know it: from the press of the glass against that full lower lip to the ripple of his throat as he tips his head back and swallows it’s a study in casual, comfortable sexuality. It’s not the subtlest come-on Phil’s ever seen, but then the kid is twenty-five and stressed; subtle probably isn’t in his repertoire this evening and Phil doesn’t really care – he’s already interested. The only question is how long it’s going to take them to politely negotiate their way out of the reception.

Phil looks out at the crowd: Federation VIPs, Starfleet brass and scattered in amongst them, the officers of the _Wellington_ , and he wonders aloud, “Do you have allies?”

Now the grin is genuine, wide and cocky and lights Pike from the inside out – transforming the weary, slightly angry young man into a picture of joyful, elegant confidence and it’s easy to see why Command wants this as the public face of Starfleet.

“I wouldn’t have accepted the posting if I didn’t know exactly who had my back.”

And Phil wonders again at the wisdom of Command setting up a scenario like this. The only saving grace is that the _Wellington’s_ first, very short, tour will be all milk-run diplomatic assignments – they’ll be lucky to make it past Vulcan, so the chances of Jessop and Pike clashing over a critical command decision are slim to none.

A third tequila is dispatched and Phil notices that the tremor in Pike’s hand has settled; the alcohol is hitting his system quickly and another moment of professional concern makes him ask:

“Have you eaten anything recently?”

“Sure, I had a pretty decent lunch – threw it up about three hours later but I probably got some good out of it.”

Phil winces, resisting the urge to ask what had been they’d been doing to him to make him throw up his lunch and just asks, “Nothing more recently than that? That tequila’s going to wreck you if you don’t back it with some food.”

“Do I look like I need a keeper?”

“You really want an answer to that?”

“Oh fuck you; I know I don’t look that bad.”

“Fuck me?” Phil pauses a beat, just long enough to engage Pike’s attention and then raises a dark eyebrow. “Maybe later, but I thought you could probably use dinner first.”

That shuts him up, and Phil smirks, pleased that he’s finally rendered this smart-assed son of a bitch speechless. It doesn’t last long.

“Then what are we waiting for?” and even though the response is delivered dead-pan, with not a hint of emotion on the surface, there’s real heat in the tone and the gray-blue eyes are alive with youth and wicked promise.

“Are they...” Phil nods towards a knot of Admirals and Federation dignitaries that has colonized one end of the buffet table “…done with you?”

“I don’t care - I’m done with _them_ \- I need to get drunk, fed and laid and not necessarily in that order.” The words and the tone broadcast a bravado mixed with residual anger that Phil just knows is going to add an interesting twist to whatever they get up to tonight. He tends to be fairly laid back about sex; at thirty-five he has long ago shed all the bullshit posturing about dominance and control that can fuck things up when there are strong personalities involved and his usual preference is for partners that are close to his own age and generally equally relaxed. It’s been a while since he’s taken on the challenge of young, brash and probably – if he’s judging Pike right – control-obsessed.

There are two shots left on the bar and Phil lifts one and sinks it. “I’ll meet you in the foyer – I need to let Ruchi know that I’m leaving.”

He feels just a little guilty that he’s abandoning her so early in the evening but when she sees who he’s leaving with she just laughs. “Nice one Phil; he’s very pretty – but the scuttlebutt is he’s hard to handle.”

“On the bridge or in bed?”

“Both.”

And Phil just grins. “You know me, always up for a challenge.”

****

It’s a little after 21:00 when they step out into the cool of a late summer evening, the night clear and the air heavy with the scent of the eucalyptus and cedar that covers the campus. Walking briskly away from the main entrance to Federation Hall, Phil gestures in the direction of the east gate that leads out onto Lombard. “Come on, there’s a decent pizza place at the corner of Greenwich and Divisadero – you look like you could use a serious infusion of carbs and beer.”

A group of Federation dignitaries passes them, making their way _towards_ the party and Phil frowns, still a little concerned at their untimely departure. “You sure you’re not going to get your hand slapped for leaving early?”

Chris just laughs, his mood measurably lighter now that he’s free of his obligations for the evening and gives Phil a look of wicked delight. “The scores I posted in Command School - I could piss in Jessop’s beer right now and they couldn’t touch me.”

And Phil cuffs him across the back of the head. "Fuck, you're an obnoxious little shit." But he's laughing, all the while knowing that he shouldn't be; this boy has an ego that clearly doesn't need encouragement.

They’re on the path behind the chapel now, dark and deserted, not even a stray cadet likely to come their way and Chris just grabs Phil's hand and presses it to the not-insubstantial ridge in his dress pants. "You want to rephrase that?" And Phil has to agree - although he’s sure as hell not going to say it - that Chris is right, _little_ might not have been the best adjective, but he just presses the heel of his hand against the hard length and works it in a slow tease. And then Chris is pulling Phil’s hand away and backing him against the wall that curves around the chapel garden, his body all heat and steel and urgent motion.

Phil manages to get a hand up to curve around the nape of Chris’ neck and he pulls him into a fast, hard kiss even as Chris presses the full length of his erection against Phil’s hip. The momentary distraction almost lets Chris take control of the kiss, but Phil is no novice at this and he tugs firmly, his fingers twined in thick blond hair and forces Chris to tilt his head, holding him at just the right angle for Phil to plunder his mouth in a _slickhotwet_ exploration. For a moment there’s a battle for dominance and then Phil pulls his mouth away and whispers against Chris’ temple.

“Stop it – this isn’t a fucking competition.” And there’s a long moment of silence, tension suffusing the air around them until Phil goes on. “Chris, I don’t have anything to prove, and I don’t think you do either – just let it go.”

The standoff continues for just a heartbeat longer and then Phil can see the change come over Chris as he lets just a little of the tension bleed away, his eyes, his body, his entire demeanor softening just slightly.

“Good boy.” And the next kiss is slower, still fierce and bruising but infused with an exquisitely sensual heat, and it leaves both of them breathless and ferociously hard. Phil is really tempted to ditch dinner and take the boy back to his apartment right now, but the physician in him just manages to squelch his libido for the moment and after one more kiss, briefer and lighter, he steps away.

“Come on, food before fucking – I don’t want you passing out on me.”

Chris is clearly starving, and he devours his own pizza and part of Phil’s, washed down with a couple of beers, before pushing his chair back with a deeply satisfied sigh – licking a stray smear of marinara from his thumb - an incongruously erotic gesture that reminds Phil exactly where the evening is headed.

“Better?”

“Oh yeah; damn, I haven’t had a decent meal in a week.” Chris drains the last of his Sam Adams and grins. “…And I haven’t gotten laid in a damn sight longer than that.”

He’s all cocky self-assurance again; chair tilted back, legs splayed in a blatant invitation, only the jet-black of his dress pants disguising the erection that’s tenting the beautifully cut fabric.

“Well, we’ll just have to take care of that, won’t we? Come on, I’m in Reid.” Phil has quarters in the Medical Staff apartment block on Infantry, it’s a bit of a hike, but if he’s right then Pike’s in temporary officer accommodations on the top floor of Finnieston and that won’t do at all for what he has in mind.

Sure enough, as they leave the restaurant and head back to the east gate, Chris volunteers.

“I’m closer.”

“Not on your life; let me guess, Finnieston: a twin bed and bathroom down the hall?”

Chris just nods and Phil shakes his head. “I don’t think so; we’re going to need a real bed and a suitable degree of privacy for what I’ve got in mind.”

By the time the elevator reaches the ninth floor of Reid they are fused together; there’s no bare skin yet, but neither are they entirely decent, the tight pants and mess-cut jackets of their dress uniforms leaving _nothing_ to the imagination as they move together in a deeply unsubtle rut. They are barely in the door when Chris goes to his knees, fingers deft on the fastenings of Phil’s dress pants, tugging them and the plain heather-gray cotton boxers out of the way. There’s a brief pause that gives Phil time to order the lights to 20% and Chris time to appreciate the full flushed curve of Phil’s cock and then Phil grins.

“Now _there’s_ a good use for that mouth.” There’s a slightly unsteady quality to his voice; he hasn’t gotten laid in a while either and the figure kneeling at his feet is one of the most sinfully beautiful things he’s ever seen. And then Chris is dragging his tongue up the entire length of Phil’s already weeping erection and, with his hands braced on Phil’s hips, he engulfs the head with his mouth and begins to suck his way to the base.

“Fuck…” it’s all Phil can do to stay upright, his knees shaking, and the muscles of his thighs quivering and there’s a moment of slightly surreal disbelief as he focuses on the fact that he’s being blown by probably the fastest rising star in the ‘Fleet. Then Chris brings him back to the moment with a flick of his tongue and Phil’s hands flail as he slaps the wall behind him for support and just shudders at the _hotwettight_ feel of Chris’ mouth as it surrounds him until he thinks he can’t stand it anymore and then fuck if the boy doesn’t swallow and Phil very nearly embarrasses himself by coming like a fifteen-year-old. He just manages to hold off, nails digging into his palms until he knows he’s leaving marks, and then Chris pulls back with a deeply wicked grin and licks something - saliva, pre-come, Phil has no idea - off his lower lip and that puts Phil right back on the edge. He drags in a lungful of air and steadies himself with a hand on Chris’ head.

“Wonderful as that feels, I really don’t want to come that fast, and believe me you don’t want me to either – you might have a recovery period that’s measured in minutes, but I’m thirty-five - I want to enjoy this before you wipe me out and I need an hour to recuperate.”

“I don’t care if the first one’s fast; we’re not doing this just once, right?” There’s laughter and teasing delight in Chris’ face and Phil can see the tension of the past few weeks beginning to drain out of him.

“Oh no, we’re doing this again, and again, and again - I can guarantee it - but I still want to enjoy you this first time.” The fingers of one hand are stroking through Chris’ hair and Phil tugs gently to get him to stand, pulling him into a long, luscious kiss that tastes of beer and pre-come and just faintly of tequila.

"Bedroom, now."

It's not that Phil has anything against being sucked off up against the wall of his living room, but he knows - he can _feel_ \- that getting sucked is going to turn into getting fucked very quickly and it'll be a lot easier on both of them if everything they need for _that_ is right at hand. And so he's tugging Chris past the couch, steering him around the obstacles that litter the floor of the apartment, pausing for both of them to shed uniform jackets and regulation black undershirts and _oh fuck_ the boy is gorgeous and Phil makes a mental note to stop calling him a boy, because he clearly isn’t. Chris is built like a Michelangelo marble, like that incredible Risen Christ that Phil once saw in Santa Maria sopra Minerva in Rome; there is nothing of a boy in this body – all broad, toned muscle and dark gold fleece.

Phil collapses onto the bed as soon as the back of his knees hit the mattress and then he’s naked and Chris is working his mouth slowly up the inside of his thigh, lips and tongue and teeth teasing and Phil shivers as deft fingers skate ahead to brush across his balls and curve around the thick heft of his cock. It’s a heady sensation when Chris finally follows fingers with his mouth and swipes the crown with the flat of his tongue; thick, soft hair brushing against Phil’s belly as Chris swallows him all the way to the root. It still doesn’t take as long as Phil might like; it’s just been too long, and Chris is superbly good at this, alternately teasing across the head with a tongue that curls wickedly around exquisitely sensitized flesh, and then sliding down until Phil can feel the tight suction as his cock hits the back of Chris’ throat. It’s pointless to fight it, and Phil just lets himself sink into the overwhelming sensations as the orgasm begins to fight its way to the surface – and then he’s groaning, and cursing and twisting his fingers into Chris’ hair as he comes in a series of shuddering spasms. Phil’s not entirely aware of his surroundings as the rush finally fades, but is just cogent enough to push himself up on his elbows and look down at Chris, who’s grinning at him, and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Breathing hard, letting his head fall back between his shoulders, Phil laughs. "Fuck, you're good at that.”

"I'm good at everything." But Phil can hear the laughter in Chris' voice, the self-deprecation that reassures him that Chris isn't quite enough of an asshole to really believe that about himself, and then Chris is crawling up the length of the bed, leaning over Phil to kiss him, a touch that is long and sweet and made utterly wanton by the bitter-sharp taste of come on his tongue.

Even as he’s moving up the bed, Chris has managed to shed the rest of his clothes and Phil finds himself covered, pressed back into the mattress by the warm, solid heft of a body that is quivering with arousal. Chris is rock hard and he shifts his hips so that his cock is nudging the back of Phil’s thigh, lifting the long leg to wrap it around his waist, and with hands braced either side of Phil’s shoulders he draws a deep breath.

“Lube?”

“Night stand.”

Given his age and the mood Chris has been in this evening, Phil expects this to be a little fast and rough, but he’s surprised at Chris’ finesse. Strong, capable fingers slick into him with practiced skill, and Phil arches and relaxes into the touch, letting Chris stretch him until he’s ready to take the thick length of Chris’ cock. And it _is_ a little fast and rough, but fuck it’s good too as Phil stretches and braces his hands on the wall and just groans as Chris fucks him into the mattress. It’s too close to his first orgasm for Phil to come again, but he submerges himself in Chris’ pleasure – letting the feel and sound and taste and smell of him become his entire world until there’s nothing but heat and sweat and the humid whisper of rapid breaths on his skin. Chris comes with a low sound that is muffled as he bites down hard on Phil’s shoulder and Phil wraps tight around him letting him ride out the shuddering, aching pleasure until Chris is spent and silent in his arms. And Phil wonders for a moment if Chris is tired enough to sleep, and then feels him shift slightly, his face buried in the curve of Phil’s neck.

“I needed that so fucking badly.”

“I know; just stay there for a while – we’ve got plenty of time.”

****

Phil thinks he might just have done it, might have finally managed to soothe the last of the tension out of the lean, muscular body that is sprawled across his bed. It’s taken almost four hours, dinner, a shower and three orgasms; there is a half-full bottle of tequila on the nightstand and the room is warm and fragrant with the sweetness of fine, medical-grade Risan weed and finally Chris is utterly boneless. He stretches under Phil’s touch, arching up as long fingers sweep the length of his spine, tracing down to the curve of his ass and then he buries his face in the pillow as Phil chases the touch with his tongue.

“Oh fuck, yes…” Chris’ voice is a low, soft growl that sends a shiver of renewed desire down Phil’s spine and he can feel Chris relaxing back against the slick twitch of his tongue. He presses a little deeper, gratified at the muffled, bitten-off sounds that are coming from further up the bed. Chris had said he wouldn't beg, and so far he hasn't, but he's getting damn close, and Phil presses deeper again, fucking Chris with his tongue in quick, shallow strokes. He pulls back eventually, leaving a deeply sucked bruise on one firm ass cheek and reaches across the bed for the lube.

“Fuck don’t stop…” it’s not quite what Phil is looking for in terms of begging and he prompts a little.

“Don’t stop? Or more?” his hand stroking down the valley of Chris’ spine, slick fingers tracing down the cleft of Chris’ ass and he feels the tension tremble through the long body. Phil pauses for a moment, a little concerned, and then asks: "You have done this before - right?"

Chris rolls and sits up and with a quick shrug looks at Phil with a slightly defensive defiance.

"Of course, but it’s never been my favorite way to get off.”

One eyebrow curves and Phil smiles slightly; why is he not surprised that this man, young as he is, has always been able to set the terms of his sexual encounters? Well, not anymore. Not that Phil's going to attempt to coerce him into anything he doesn't want, but by the time Phil is done with him, Chris is going to be begging to be fucked.

"Then you haven’t been doing it right.”

"Maybe I just like to be in control." There it is and Phil is slightly surprised, but gratified, that Chris is at least self-aware enough to know why some of his motivations are a little fucked up.

"I'd noticed - but sometimes it feels right to give up control - sometimes you need to give it up...and I think you need to learn that - or does that scare you too much?" It's a low blow and Phil knows it even as the words come out of his mouth.

"Fuck you." But there’s no heat in it; Chris is clearly too relaxed to work up any real ire at Phil’s challenge.

Phil just laughs and says, "We already did that. Now it's your turn.” He’s stroking his hand firmly across Chris' chest, enjoying the texture of the generous spread of dark gold hair and the broad powerful muscles beneath and Phil smiles as Chris’ face shows all of his hesitation mixed with just a little curiosity.

"Come on - I promise - I’ll be very, very good to you.”

The answering nod is brief and not entirely convinced and Phil keeps up the long, sweeping strokes across Chris’ body. Taciturn at the best of times, Phil is normally not at all talkative during sex, but he has the sense, watching Chris as he arches and shivers slightly, that Chris may need to be talked through this and he continues to stroke a gentle hand across warm, flushed skin.

“Trust me…” his voice is soft, convincing, gentle,”…let me touch you.”

Chris bites his lip, his answering nod a little more confident now, and Phil lifts one of Chris’ legs until the calf is resting on his shoulder, and then slides his slicked fingers down the twitching length of Chris’ cock, sliding under his sac to rest against his entrance. Chris’ eyes go wide for just a moment and Phil gentles him with a long stroke to his cock, and then, while Chris is distracted, Phil breaches him swiftly and surely, finding his prostate with the unerring touch of a physician and Chris arches into the touch. There’s surprise and need and naked want in Chris’ face and Phil feels his heart stutter in his chest at the raw vulnerability that is suddenly visible there. Fuck, he’s beautiful and Phil leans forward far enough to curve his palm around the line of Chris’ jaw, thumb pressing lightly against that full lower lip until Chris opens his mouth and bites down gently. Holding his gaze, Phil fucks Chris slowly with first one, then two and eventually three fingers, his own cock thrumming at the feel of velvet tight heat around his fingers.

“So good, Chris, you are so good, so fucking tight…” and now Phil has slicked his cock and watches carefully as he replaces his fingers with the blunt head, pressing in slowly. Chris has at least done this often enough to know to press back against the intrusion, and to Phil’s surprise he feels Chris relax into it and then Phil groans as he sinks in to the hilt.

“Oh, Christ, you feel so good.” Phil pauses and leans all the way forward, hands braced on either side of Chris’ shoulders and then hitches himself a fraction deeper. There’s almost no iris visible in Chris’ eyes, and he’s breathing fast and shallow as Phil begins to withdraw and then advance again, setting up a slow, inexorable rhythm that has Chris keening quietly.

“That’s it, just keep watching me. I want you to know who’s fucking you, Chris - I want you to feel every centimeter of me inside you. So good…so incredibly fucking good.” Phil shifts the angle of his hips just a fraction and his breath catches as Chris reaches up to brace his hands against the wall. And then Chris is using all of his not inconsiderable strength to match Phil’s rhythm, both of them breathing hard, sweating and groaning until Chris finally gasps. "Oh fuck, I'm going to come...."

Phil reaches for one of Chris’ hands, and twines their fingers together in an iron grip. "Fuck yes, come for me." Phil is snapping his hips now, fast and powerful, and he leans in that last fraction to cover Chris’ mouth, swallowing the unbelievably erotic noises that he’s making, feeling the first electric charge of his impending climax spark through his body.

And then Chris is coming, in arching spasms that whipsaw through both of them and Phil’s making those same low keening noises as his orgasm becomes inexorable. He's never been able to withstand his partner's orgasm, has never seen any reason why he would want to - there are few things in life as sweet as being dragged into oblivion by the overwhelming sensation of someone else's bliss. And Phil just lets himself go, feeling Chris' cock as it pulses between them, the warm, wet slick of semen suddenly easing the friction between their bodies as Phil quakes and comes in one long, shuddering pulse.

When they’re finally breathing normally again, they are fused together with sweat and come and it takes every last ounce of energy for Phil to peel himself away and roll onto his back, smiling as Chris rolls with him to wrap an arm across his chest and bury his face in the curve of Phil's neck.

"Don't go to sleep yet...we need to get cleaned up.” He raises his head just a fraction and looks at the ruined sheets “…and we need to do something about the bed...”

It takes fifteen minutes before Phil can persuade Chris to move, nudging him until he finally rolls onto his back and sits up in a single, fluid motion that does nothing but remind Phil of how long it’s been since he passed his last ‘Fleet physical and as Chris swings his legs off the bed Phil points in the direction of the bathroom.

“Shower; I’ll deal with the bed and then we both need sleep.”

Chris cleans up as Phil changes the sheets and then walks naked out of the bathroom and collapses onto the fresh bed while Phil takes his turn in the shower. He doesn’t think it’s going to happen but by the time Phil makes it back to the bedroom he’s gratified to find that Chris is already deeply asleep, sprawled on his stomach across the center of the bed, long legs wrapped in clean sheets his head turned to the side and resting on one arm. Phil sits on the edge of the bed and just watches him. In a minute he’s going to have to figure out a way to move Chris so that he can carve out enough room to sleep but for now he just leans in and lays a brief kiss on the nape of his neck - right where his hair tapers to a point and, eyes closed, Phil breathes in the slightly incongruous scent of his shower gel on someone else’s body and, as he does, a brief snippet of Cavafy rolls up from the depths of his memory:

  
_“there happened to be moments – however, rarest moments , to be sure – when he gave the impression of a flesh almost untouched.”_   


“Beautiful boy.”

In a week Phil will be on the other side of the quadrant, the new CMO for _Starbase 24_ , and two weeks after that Chris will be on the _Wellington_. It will be months, possibly years, before they see each other again, but for now they have the rest of the weekend and Phil has every intention of ensuring that they are both exhausted and utterly fucked out by Monday morning.

**** **** The Next Morning

Coffee…real coffee…not the replicated, pale imitation of coffee that is served up in the main mess, but real honest-to-god made in an espresso machine – or a French press, Chris isn’t _that picky_ – coffee. That’s the smell that rouses him, that makes him stretch and slowly come awake… and realize that he isn’t in his own bed. For a moment, he’s disoriented - the bed is far too wide and comfortable to be the one he’s been occupying in Finnieston for the last two months. The sheets are soft and while they smell of the same laundry detergent as everything else in a Starfleet facility, there’s a warm, musky, woody undercurrent that brings to mind scattered fragments of last night – a warm, strong body, clever hands and mouth and a voice, low and slightly graveled, the memory of it making Chris shiver with remembered arousal.

He groans and rolls onto his back, the sudden movement making his head pound just a little, and he remembers too that he put away quite an impressive amount of alcohol last night, and then that pain is abruptly chased from his awareness by the much more surprising and unaccustomed twinge in his ass - that unmistakable strange, stretched, open feeling - that suggests that he has been thoroughly fucked and that thought makes Chris go very still as he sorts through exactly what happened last night. Because Chris Pike doesn’t bottom - at least he hasn’t in a long damn time.

He lies there for a moment staring at a faint water stain on the ceiling and apparently that’s exactly what he needs to make his memory function properly again, because he’s suddenly remembering yesterday in excruciating detail. The ten hours of final debriefing from the SI operatives who were running CI/CT, which was supposed to provide context and closure for the two weeks of hell that the command candidates had just been through but in fact had done nothing more than reinforce all the physical and psychological fallout from the toughest weeks of Command school. Followed closely by the _Wellington’s_ launch function, where his frustration with Command, especially Jessop, had come close to boiling over - until he’d been effectively and thoroughly distracted in the best possible way. His memory supplies the name and an assortment of other details. Boyce, Phillip Jay, M.D. Ph.D. – Commander and soon to be CMO of _Starbase 24_ and - oh-my-fucking-god - possibly the sexiest thing Chris has ever seen in Science blues.

Chris inhales a sharp breath as he remembers looking down the bar to face that sardonic half smile and the heat and promise in those perceptive and exquisitely seductive blue eyes. He’s still not entirely sure what had made him decide in that same instant that he wanted to take this man somewhere private and find a flat surface where he could fuck out all the tension that was threatening to explode all over the launch function in ways that could become inconveniently messy but Boyce’s quiet, centered confidence had certainly been part of the attraction - and _fuck_ , the body hadn’t hurt either, long and lean and wiry and damn as he’s thinking about it Chris realizes that what had started out as a normal, unconscious waking erection has morphed into a full blown need to fuck something _now_. He lets out a low groan of frustration, not entirely sure whether the open invitation to Phil’s bed extends to the morning after, and then snaps his head up as he hears the door slide open.

“You awake?” There’s that voice again and Chris turns to the side momentarily to notice that it’s after 10:00 and then looks back to the door.

Phil’s leaning on the frame, dressed only in a pair of jeans that fit him entirely too well, one hand scratching the back of his neck and running through thick, straight dark hair. He looks younger like this, relaxed and open and faintly predatory and Chris feels something dark and not entirely unwelcome twist in him as he realizes that he may have taken on more than he’s used to handling. He really does like to be in control at all times, and in deference to that need he’s made a habit of bedding women, and men who in no way challenge his innate alpha nature. That makes his life easy and uncomplicated, not only ensuring that he remains physically in control of any encounter, but also guaranteeing sex that is uncomplicated enough - technically perfect but lacking in emotional resonance - that there’s no risk of anything other than his libido being engaged in the coupling. In short, an ideal situation for someone who intends to spend the next decade building a career that will eventually take him to Fleet Captain.

Chris watches as Phil just studies him silently and takes a long swallow of his coffee, the slightest smile playing around that narrow and surprisingly talented mouth and Chris’ limbic system gives him another quick reminder as to why he allowed this relative stranger to take him to bed last night. It’s in that moment that he decides that Phil’s easy relaxed slouch is all the signal he needs to take up where they left off in the early hours of the morning. He stretches in a blatant tease, all long lean limbs and lazy, unselfconscious sexuality – his cock already at full mast, twitching hopefully above his stomach. Phil runs the tip of his tongue over his lower lip and raises a dark, elegant eyebrow.

“I can take care of that for you, if you’d like.”

“If I’d like?” Chris props himself up on his elbows and there’s an edge of incredulity in his voice - is Phil _insane_ – if there is one thing that Starship duty teaches you it’s to take your sexual favors when and where you can get them.

“Yeah - your choice – you’ve been pulling Starship duty for what, four years, sure you’re pretty damned good with that left hand by now.”

“I was good with that hand long before I went out in the black – doesn’t mean I’d chose it over your mouth.”

“Who says I was offering my mouth? Just said I’d take care of it.” Phil sets the coffee down on the end table and Chris inhales the steam from the mug – damn, just how he likes it – very hot, very strong and, if he’s not mistaken, a very dark roast. But the teasing touch of Phil’s hand ghosting over his thigh brings him back to the much more immediate sensation of his cock quivering slightly, begging for attention and he grins – all cocky confidence again.

“Oh you’ll suck me – you did it so well last night I nearly passed out and you just loved it – you telling me you don’t want that again?”

Chris is aware that just occasionally he can be obnoxiously self-assured, and as Phil just stands there at the side of the bed and looks at him, the eyebrow curved again, now in slightly tolerant disbelief, he wonders if this is one of those occasions – wonders if he might have pushed his luck just a little too far. And then Phil just laughs and sits down on the bed, rolling over so that he’s between Chris’ legs, elbows braced on either side of his hips, perfectly positioned to lower his mouth on to the now lazily leaking cock. Chris is mesmerized by the intensity, and just a hint of laughter, in the blue eyes that are watching him and he holds Phil’s gaze as he’s slowly engulfed in hot, wet, velvet suction until he can’t hold his head up any longer and lets it fall back between his shoulders, vaguely grateful that Phil can’t see his eyes roll back in his head as a soft laugh vibrates around his length.

It’s everything that a lazy morning blowjob should be, long and slow and lush and infused with affectionate care and exquisite skill and Chris just lets himself sink into the delicious sensation of being sucked by a master. He curls his fingers into the silky dark hair that is lying on his stomach, no thought of directing the proceedings, just trying to anchor himself in the moment, letting the still slightly damp strands slip through his fingers and groaning through wave after wave of slow-building heat. When his orgasm finally hits it almost takes him by surprise, hovering on the edge for an age before Phil finally hollows his cheeks and swallows his full length once, pulling back to flick his tongue over the crown and then swallows again, this time with the obvious intent of making Chris come now. And Chris obliges.

It takes him a few moments to recover and his vision finally clears to the sight of Phil sitting on the edge of the bed, his grin more than slightly self-satisfied, holding out the mug of coffee.

“So how do you feel?”

Chris takes a long, swallow of the now considerably cooler coffee and then grins back “Rested, relaxed…well fucked.”

“Well fucked, hmm? How well?”

“Well enough I’m seriously considering letting you do it again.”

****

They negotiate the terms of the rest of the weekend while leaning up against the kitchen counters drinking Phil’s excellent, tritanium-strength coffee and sharing half a loaf of toast and a plate of eggs. Phil has a logistics meeting that will take up most of the afternoon – he’s shipping out to _Starbase 24_ on a supply ship and this is his chance to make sure that his new sickbay is stocked and equipped to his liking.

Chris, on the other hand, needs a couple of hours in the Starfleet Command archives. It’s the last week of Command School - First Contact Protocols and Advanced Diplomatic Tactics - and he wants to dig up the mission reports for the three or four truly outstanding First Contact captains over the last century – from the ever-legendary Archer to Ghibertoni - who was so valuable in command that she wasn’t bounced up to Admiral until she was in her nineties - and more recently, Hector Xhou who had single handedly brought most of the planets around the Typhon Expanse into the Federation. It is that kind of preparation that is ensuring his continued excellence in Command School and, much as he is enjoying himself, he isn’t about to let sex get in the way of career advancement. With a run thrown in for a little more stress relief and a stop by Finnieston to retrieve some clothes of his own so he can return the borrowed jeans and sweatshirt that have saved him the embarrassment of hiking across campus in his dress uniform the morning _after_ a major event – and there isn’t a being on the Presidio who wouldn’t know what that signifies – Chris finds himself back at Phil’s apartment a little after 19:00, with take-out Thai and an offering of beer.

****

Chris doesn’t mean to end up stretched out on the couch with his head in Phil’s lap – but it feels so good to just relax, he’s still tired and there’s just the slightest edge of tension left over from the last two weeks of constant physical and mental strain and the simple human comfort of a warm body and gentle, almost absentminded, touch of Phil’s fingers in his hair is so soothing that he doesn’t even try to maintain his usual slightly aloof distance. He wouldn’t normally be caught dead allowing anyone to look after him like this, even someone he’d just spent the night with, but the food and the beer and Phil’s quiet, centered calm has him sufficiently off-balance that he doesn’t really care that he’s projecting just a little more vulnerability than he has allowed anyone to see in years.

“You want to talk about it?” Phil’s voice is barely above a whisper and his fingers trace the curve of Chris’ jaw, stroking over his pulse spot and generating a quiet little sound of anticipation as they curve around to the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck.

“Dunno…” Chris stretches, burrowing his head a little tighter against Phil’s body and then thinks for a moment trying to decide if he can articulate what has been bothering him, if he _wants_ to articulate it for Phil – if he wants to give that much of himself to this man that he’s known for less than 24 hours. And then Phil strokes his free hand down the smooth curve of Chris’ back, fingers gentle on the over-washed softness of the sweatshirt - soothing the ever so slight tremor that quivers through the long, powerful body.

“Fear’s good you know….keeps you alive, keeps you human – you command types need to remember that every so often.”

“It’s not what you think.” There’s a defensive hitch in Chris’ voice – still young and arrogant enough that he doesn’t want Phil to think that his unease is fear of the physical consequences of torture; his tolerance for pain is right up there with the best of them and Command School hadn’t been able to throw anything at him that he couldn’t handle.

Oh there had been moments of abject terror in the past few weeks – moments when he had come close to uttering the safe word that they were all instructed to use when they could no longer tolerate what was being inflicted on them. Water-boarding in particular had been hard on Chris, playing on his deep-seated fear of drowning and, while he’d conquered much of that fear by taking up surfing when he’d joined the Academy, nothing could have prepared him for the sensation of being restrained and subjected to short periods of water-suffocation over and over again. But he’d survived it essentially unscathed and his inevitable road-to-Damascus moment hadn’t come until that final debriefing when the full import of passing this section of Command School had been laid out for the 65% of the candidates who hadn’t washed out at some point over the last eight weeks. He was used to the idea of being responsible for his crew, of his duty to protect them and by extension any other Starfleet personnel and stray civilians in his care – had no qualms at all about stepping into the line of fire for them. What struck him now, for the first time, was the sheer weight of responsibility that would come with the very specific knowledge that commanders carried every day. With intelligence came a whole other level of accountability and at any given time a Starship commander might hold billions of lives in his hands – and that, _that_ had made Chris pause, the sheer magnitude of the responsibility hitting like a tsunami, churning his stomach and eventually, making him lose his lunch.

“So that’s what it was.” There’s no judgment in Phil’s voice and Chris just sighs, not quite sure what he feels right now – embarrassment at his own weakness warring with a renewed sense of apprehension at the thought that three weeks from now someone from SI will sit him down and run through the security protocols for all the systems closest to _Sol_ , and then he will know enough to facilitate the deaths of billions of Federation citizens. He shudders at the thought and then goes on.

“There used to be a fail-safe, you know? A lethal dose of neurotoxin embedded beneath the gum line – only a very specific bite could activate it – but some fucking genius in Archer’s time decided that was barbaric.”

Phil’s hand stills for a moment. “I think I might have to agree with that genius – issuing commanders suicide pills is pretty damned barbaric.”

“It’s less fucking barbaric than genocide. We have no idea what kind of technology is out there, what we haven’t encountered yet – the ways that beings that want to do us harm could try to extract information – the ways they could…” There’s just the slightest edge of panic in Chris’ voice now and he can feel the tension like an electric current beneath his skin, making him shiver, grateful when Phil resumes a firm, even stroke up his back and into his hair.

“Shh Chris, leave it, just let it go.” Phil cuts him off and there is the softest touch of lips in his hair and Chris takes one deep, slow breath as Phil goes on. “That’s it; let it go and come to bed. Do you trust me that I can make you forget? At least for a while?”

****

“No fucking wa…..” and before he can get the final word out Phil has placed two long fingers over Chris’ lips, silencing him.

“Think about it for a moment before you say no.” His free hand is stroking across Chris’ chest and comes to rest right where Chris can feel his heart hammering. It’s not a challenge exactly and Chris is grateful for that, he can’t ever resist a challenge, knows that it’s one of his weaknesses, something he’s going to have to learn to control before it gets him - or worse, someone else - killed.

And then just as he is about to think about how much the thought of letting Phil wrap those lengths of silk around his wrists and tie them to the bed scares the living daylights out of him the mental image of it makes his breath hitch with need and in that moment his body betrays him utterly and he’s suddenly, achingly hard. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ …there’s no disguising that level of interest in Phil’s offer and Chris doesn’t even get the chance to say anything before his cock twitches slightly, brushing Phil’s abdomen and leaving a tell-tale damp trail along the firm muscles.

Phil just grins and Chris is gratified that there’s no malice in it, not even a hint of smugness, just pleasure and desire and ever such a slight hint of possessive need and Phil takes one of Chris’s hands and kisses the smooth skin over his pulse, licking across the fine bones of his wrist. And then he pulls up the length of silk from under the bed, it’s a long, dark blood red loop and Phil wraps it around Chris’ left wrist a few times, just enough that his hand can’t slip free by accident, and then repeats the exercise on the right wrist. Chris is breathing hard, chest heaving, his eyes huge as he watches Phil – hovering on the edge of panic until Phil slides his hand around the nape of Chris’ neck and leans in to kiss him, long and slow and exquisitely deep – a hot, sweet exploration.

“Shhh…s’okay. They’re just wrapped around, if it gets too much you can slip free.” Phil’s mouth is soft on his neck and Chris knows that the far too rapid beat of his pulse is betraying all of his nervousness but Phil just kisses the spot again and then begins to trail his mouth down across a sharp clavicle, across the warm smooth skin of a broad shoulder and Chris begins to relax. As Phil makes his way down across Chris’ body, mapping every curve of muscle and finding every trigger point that makes Chris shiver and moan, nervousness begins to give way to frustration. He’s never allowed someone else to control him like this, to take away his ability to direct sex in the way that _he_ wants but, frustrating and disconcerting as it is, there is something entirely seductive about being at the mercy of someone else – at least when that someone else is using his mouth and hands to hit every trigger point on Chris’ body – making him twist and writhe and shudder at every touch.

And then, just when he thinks that he knows what is going on, watching Phil slick his fingers, relaxing, preparing for the stretch and burn of being fucked for the second time in 24 hours, he’s thrown completely as Phil straddles him and wraps those long, skilled fingers around his cock, slicking him in long easy strokes. Chris bucks into the touch, wrapping his hands around the silk ties and pulling hard, using the leverage to press upward against the hot, hard weight of the man above him.

He stutters, not quite believing that Phil is about to impale himself without any further preparation. “But, you haven’t…you aren’t ...”

“No need, you’re plenty hard and more than slick enough.” And Phil grips the slippery length of Chris’ cock and jerks him once firmly and gives a slightly feral smile. “I think we can just let gravity take care of it…” The grin widens and his eyes are bright with a tantalizing mix of mischief and lust that makes Chris shiver with need before he goes on again “….anyway, I like the burn.” He lays another long, leisurely stroke along the length of Chris’ cock, thumb brushing across the head.

“Oh fuck…” and Chris just knows he’s in far more trouble than he can handle and damn if that thought doesn’t make him even harder.

And then Phil’s leaning forward, one hand on Chris’ chest for support as he lets that firm length of very well-slicked cock slide along the cleft of his ass, settling himself until it’s seated just where he wants it and then rising up and easing himself back down. Chris has to bite his lip to stop himself from whimpering at the feel of that tight ring of muscle resisting him for a long moment and then he watches, rapt, as Phil visibly relaxes and Chris can’t contain the groan as he slides in a bare few centimeters.

“Fuck….”

Phil is stunning like this, and once his head has cleared slightly, Chris thinks - not for the first time in 24 hours - that he needs to stop making assumptions about the physical conditioning of Starfleet’s Science division. Phil may not have Chris’ physical skill set or quite his height and breadth of muscle but the sight of him – long body stretched up, shoulders back, hands linked behind his head showing off a broad chest dusted with fine, silky dark hair threaded with just the slightest hints of gray – makes Chris exhale a breathless needy sound as he realizes that this maybe close to the hottest thing he’s ever seen and as Phil moves, fucking himself in slow, controlled strokes, Chris can’t help but track his gaze lower, to where his own thick length is disappearing into Phil’s body and the breathless exhale turns into a whine of need.

He _needs_ to touch, to run his hands up Phil’s thighs, to feel the stretch and flex of powerful muscles under lightly furred skin, to wrap his fist around the flushed and leaking cock that is twitching so enticingly against a flat abdomen. But he can’t do any of that, he can only wrap his hands tighter in the silk and brace his heels against the mattress, using both points of leverage to express his helpless lust by thrusting up against Phil, trying to match the slow, torturous rhythm that Phil is setting for them. There is a soft gasp from above and Chris watches entranced as Phil leans back a little further, hands dropping from behind his head to rest loosely on his thighs as he continues to fuck himself ever so slowly, twisting just slightly on each down stroke and Chris just knows that without any effort on his own part he’s managing to nail Phil’s prostate with every thrust, his breath hitching and catching each time he sees the flare of need and hunger in those exquisitely intense blue eyes.

Chris tries to catch a breath, about to voice a thought but it dies on his tongue as Phil lays a finger across his lips – slow half-smile lifting one corner of his mouth as he shakes his head.

“Shh…don’t need to say anything Chris, just let me do this, don’t think, don’t move, just feel it…let go….” And then it’s Phil’s voice that stutters and hitches as he sinks down again, eyes shuttering closed for a moment as a single visceral shiver shakes him, fingers curling into fists as every muscle goes taut for just a second and Chris watches as Phil pulls it together and those remarkable eyes are fixed on him again, alive with lust and heat and authority.

Quiet and contained and faintly predatory - it’s not a look Chris has seen from Phil in the hours leading up to this point and he’s breathless again as he feels the leashed power of the man who is riding him with such skill. And it is leashed, the understated yet unmistakable dominance written in Phil’s face and in the set of his body softened by understanding and acceptance and compassion and a very clear acknowledgement that _this_ , whatever _this_ is, is about Chris and what he needs.

And fuck if that isn’t a bitch because Chris knows he shouldn’t want _this_ , it’s dangerous in so many ways, all of which terrify him and yet he craves it with a helpless, abject need. Knows that somewhere, in some deep, well hidden recess of his soul there is a part of himself that can only be grounded and centered when he’s able to let someone else in to take control and let him sink into some place where he’s responsible for nothing more than letting his body respond to the sensations of touch and taste and sound and smell.

“So now who’s in control, Chris?” Phil is riding him so slowly, his hips moving in a tight, controlled motion that makes Chris bite his lip to contain the whimper that threatens to emerge every time Phil tightens his body around the hard length of Chris’ cock. He shakes his head, not sure if he’s capable of speech even if his brain could formulate a response and instead he arches as far as he can off the bed.

“This is also about control, you understand that don’t you?” And Chris shudders again at the low, dark, breathless quality to Phil’s voice. “You understand that even when you can’t control what’s being done to you, you can control how you react. Yes?” Phil has one hand resting on Chris’s abdomen now, fingers tracing patterns in the fine sheen of sweat that is beginning to coat both of them.

“Can you hold out while I come? Can you do that for me? Hmmm… can you be good for me? Don’t think, don’t move, just lie there and let me fuck myself on you and all you have to do is not come when I do. Can you do that?” Phil twists again on the down stroke and Chris doesn’t even recognize the sound that breaks loose as he arches once more into the heat above him.

He’s so close, so ready to let himself go, it would be so easy, and in a moment of lucidity Chris wonders what the fuck he’s doing - this weekend is about getting off, as often and as hard as he can – in ten years of practice he’s managed to get fucking-as-stress-relief down to a fine art and he’s never, ever considered that he might need lessons in how to better achieve that. But through some bizarre alchemy of trust and vulnerability – and he would never have quite believed that Command School could have fucked with his mind so thoroughly – he’s found someone who is both willing and able to push him far beyond anything he’s ever known and to his utter surprise he’s beginning to understand that letting go and following Phil’s lead on this might be the best thing to happen to him in years.

He’s snapped out of his brief reverie by the feel of Phil’s nails, short and blunt, but effective, as they trace down the dark trail beneath his navel and he watches as Phil smiles, just a fraction, eyes gone to a dark liquid blue as he begins to stroke his own length and Chris is mesmerized at the play of strong, practiced fingers across slick skin, watching, remembering for the future, and that’s another thought that he doesn’t want to examine too closely, the whole point of this weekend is that it’s terminal. Thank you Starfleet. And again he’s snapped back to the moment, this time by Phil’s voice.

“Such a good boy…mhhmm…so close…” Phil gives himself another faster, rougher stroke and simultaneously tightens his muscles around Chris’s length and for a moment Chris almost loses it, clinging on by the thinnest thread until Phil’s voice washes over him again, deep and rough and threaded with need.

“Fuck, that feels so good, can’t believe how fucking good you feel inside me…so close Chris…so fucking close.” Chris can _see_ how close Phil is to losing it, can hear it as Phil’s voice trails off into soft sounds of stuttering, incoherent need until with one last twist he stills, body quivering with tension and then comes in a high arcing splash that anoints Chris’ chest and chin and lips, and Chris shudders at the feel of it, hot and thick on his skin. Before he can stop himself his tongue flicks out to taste Phil on his lips and he groans at the bitter-sharp taste and at the feel of the body spasming around him, only just able to hold off his own orgasm, every muscle straining as he breathes hard and fast, heart hammering.

For a long moment Phil hangs suspended above Chris, his head dropped low between his shoulders, the powerful muscles of his thighs trembling as they support the almost dead weight of his shaking, satiated body. And then his head comes back up, fixing his gaze on Chris, his own orgasm just a heartbeat away, and Phil’s eyes are clear and lucid and shockingly blue.

“Now Chris, now you can let go. I can’t believe you did that for me.” Threaded with sated exhaustion, Phil’s voice is a low, filthy whisper as he leans close and it takes Chris a moment to clear his head enough to realize what Phil has just said. And then he’s moving, stretching up the bed until there is enough slack in the silk to let him slip his hands free, ignoring the slight tingle of returning circulation and using all of his considerable strength to flip Phil onto his back, bracing himself on the mattress and fucking him with all the power in his substantial frame. His hands are curled around Phil’s shoulders, pulling him down as he fucks up hard, dragging him in tight and biting down on the smooth skin at the base of Phil’s throat, sucking a brutally possessive mark into the soft flesh as his own orgasm overtakes him at last.

It takes Chris a long, long time to drag himself up from the deep well of aching, contented lassitude that his orgasm has cast him into and by the time he’s aware of himself again Phil has shifted slightly out from under his weight and – still coupled – he’s got one hand buried in Chris’ hair holding him in place as he scents down his neck and across his clavicle to the hollow of his throat.

“Hmm…fuck…you smell good.” His voice is still soft and lazy with sex and Chris chuffs a slightly surprised laugh and wraps his fingers in the dark silk of Phil’s hair.

“I smell like you just came all over me.” In truth they both smell of sweat and sex and the dark, spicy base note of sandalwood that infuses both of them, a legacy of several showers with both of them using Phil’s shower gel and Chris isn’t in the least unhappy with it.

“Like I said, you smell good.” Phil pauses and Chris just knows that there is more – can see Phil weighing what he’s about to say next and suspects that he knows exactly what is coming and with a wicked, dark smile Phil leans in and whispers soft against Chris’ ear.

“You smell like you’re mine.”

It’s entirely in keeping with the power and control that Phil has been exercising all night, but hearing it vocalized is just a step too far for Chris and stills, his entire body strung tight for a long moment until Phil lays a finger lightly on his lips and soothes him with a gentle touch.

“Just for now Chris, just for tonight, for the weekend – that’s all.” And Chris relaxes again, groaning slightly as he finally softens enough to slip free from Phil’s body, brushing a whisper of a kiss against the deep red bruise that he has left on Phil’s throat – evidence of his own moment of possessive madness - before rolling onto his back with a sigh.

“I can live with that.”

****

Sunday passes in a haze of sleep, sex and take-out Chinese – Chris managing to rouse himself enough to run and make another pass by Finnieston to pick up a clean uniform for the morning – Phil only making it off the couch to fetch beer at regular intervals and open the door to the delivery boy with the General Tso’s chicken and Hunan beef - extra spicy, at Chris’ request. By the time they make it to bed, aware that their time is running short now, they’re both feeling lazy and relaxed and the intensity between them has softened into something more familiar, playful and teasing.

Chris is spread out naked, face down, on yet another set of fresh sheets - he hates to think what the laundry service in Reid is going to make of Phil’s devastation of the complex’s usually well rationed supply of bed linens – and Phil is making a slow survey of his body with lips and fingers and tongue.

“Christ, you are flawless – has anyone ever told you that?”

Chris just hides his face in the pillow, riding out the sudden flush of embarrassment as Phil licks a hot, wet stripe down his spine, stretching as that talented mouth lays soft, open kisses across the firm curve of his ass – twitching as Phil bites down hard.

“Fuck.” It’s a slightly outraged exhale and Chris leans up, looking back over his shoulder to where Phil is grinning at him, one finger tracing the twin curves of the bite-mark that he’s left on Chris’ ass and then moving on to the fading bruise from Friday night. “I’m not going to be flawless much fucking longer if you keep doing that.”

Phil soothes the spot. “Sorry...” he doesn’t sound in the least bit sorry and Chris laughs quietly before the touch of lips and tongue, hot and moist makes him shiver and turn back to the pillow, giving himself up to the temptation to hump the mattress slightly.

“…can’t help myself, this ass was made to be bitten.” And Chris can’t help but laugh again – Phil sounds so totally guileless.

“Somehow I don’t think that’s all you want to do to it.”

“Hmmm….you going to let me fuck you again?” he sucks a gentler bruise into the firm muscles of Chris’ shoulder and then nibbles at the curve of his neck generating a little shudder of arousal as a slightly shaky voice responds.

“I could be persuaded.”

“And just what…” Phil runs a warm finger down Chris’s spine, all the way to the curve of his ass “….would it take…” and he’s using his legs to spread Chris’ thighs wider, giving him room to work as he follows his finger with the broad, flat heat of his tongue “….to persuade you?”

Chris just groans and bites the pillow trying to contain the ridiculously wanton noises that he’s making every time Phil’s tongue makes a pass across the tight pucker of his ass and then the finger joins the party again, slick now and cool and as Phil eases it gently past the tight ring of muscle and then slides fast and deep to the knuckle Chris draws a sharp breath and in an embarrassingly unsteady voice confesses. “That…that’s exactly what it would take to persuade me. Jesus Phil, just fuck me, would you?”

“Is that you begging Chris?”

“No…just asking…politely.” It’s said through gritted teeth; Chris is damned if he’s going to beg, but even as he says it he knows he’s lost this particular battle – Phil knows too many of his triggers already – if he really puts his mind to it – if he teases and torments and makes Chris wait - then Chris will beg – _eventually_.

“Hmmm, not good enough.” And Phil withdraws the finger again, tracing the pad lightly around the slick and now slightly vulnerable opening, dipping in just a fraction before pulling a pillow down to wedge beneath Chris’ hips and then going back to work with his tongue. By the time Phil has worked him open with two fingers and his tongue Chris is writhing and whimpering and, quite frankly, _begging_. The unbelievable sensation of that warm wet muscle slicking into his by now hyper-sensitive ass is driving him insane and he would never have believed the sheer density of the nerve endings that are responding to Phil’s expert attention.

“Please Phil, please just do it – for fuck’s sake.” He’s not really expecting an answer and whines slightly when Phil pulls back, levering himself up over Chris’ back before whispering, low and rough and a little needy himself.

“How do you want it?”

“Hard.” Chris is a little surprised as that comes out of his mouth – but Phil had been exquisitely considerate when he’d fucked Chris on Friday night and Chris is pretty damn sure that he’d been holding back. “Hard, and slow and take as long as you like.” He’s pretty proud of himself that he can string together a sentence of more than three words at this point and he takes advantage of the brief moment of lucidity to look back over his shoulder and grin at Phil. “Come on, old man; show me what you’ve got.”

A little less than an hour later Chris is once again unconscious in the middle of Phil’s bed and they’ve wrecked yet another set of sheets that will have to wait till the morning to be changed.

****

They part at the door to Phil’s apartment at a little after 06:30 – Chris with a thermos mug of coffee to keep him company on the long walk to the Cooper Compound, home of SI and the location of this week’s Command School classes and Phil still looking sleep-deprived and fucked-out in a pair of sweat pants that are riding low enough to make Chris seriously think about blowing off the morning’s classes and just taking him back to bed. But he doesn’t, settling for a hopeful, “When d’you ship out?”

“Thursday, 17:00 – will you have any time before then?”

“I’ll try – maybe tomorrow night, probably late, I promised a friend I’d sit in on a gig at _The Gatecrasher_ \- I’ll comm you when I know what time.”

“Sitting in as what?”

“Drummer…not my instrument of choice, but you take what you can get when you’re only in town for a couple of months at a time.”

“Comm me, I think I’d like to see that.”

“Yeah?” Chris grins and gives a dark, wicked little chuckle. “Might get lucky, it’s been a long time since I fucked anyone in a club bathroom during a gig.”

“You sure you’ll be the one doing the fucking?” Phil is back to looking predatory and just pulls Chris close, one finger hooked in the collar of the uniform shirt and leans in to lick at the pulse spot under his jaw, biting down gently and then, to Chris’ total surprise, Phil sucks hard, the humid heat and slight edge of pain making him flush with renewed desire.

“Fuck, that’s…just fuck…” It’s possessive is what it is, and that’s what leaves Chris at a loss for words; no one has ever tried to possess him, to mark him in quite such an obvious fashion and he tenses for a moment, aware that if they weren’t both very cognizant of the fact that this can’t last longer than a few more days, there’s a better than even chance that he would have decked Phil for the sheer presumption of it.

“Hmmm, just making sure no one else gets any ideas before tomorrow night.” Phil tilts Chris’ chin up to better survey his handiwork and Chris can see the slightly smug satisfaction in the blue eyes that flick across his skin. “Hmm….very nice.”


End file.
